


Saint Nick's Fog Machine

by Liara_90



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Enemies to Friends, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Light-Hearted, Office Party, One Shot, POV Third Person, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 18:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12989541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: (Written for the prompt): "Yang and Weiss, sworn enemies, are chosen to prepare the company Christmas Party".Shenanigans ensue.





	Saint Nick's Fog Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my Tumblr](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/post/168099199333/freezerburn-and-1-from-the-christmas-romance) around a week ago. Have another of my attempts at fluff.

A pair of calloused knuckles rasped against the metal frame of Weiss Schnee’s cubicle. The occupant of said open office let out a self-pitying sigh, before straightening up and swiveling around in her chair.

“You wanted to see me?” Weiss found herself suddenly uncomfortably close to Miss Yang Xiao Long, flaunting her usual disregard for any semblance of an office dress code.

“Not particularly,” Weiss muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

The spreadsheet for purchases on the company credit card. Yang suppressed a gulp.

“Item 451, purchased December 1st at 11:52 AM, for $788.29.” ( _beat_ ) Could you tell me what that is?” 

Yang leaned forward to squint at the tiny text, stretching across Weiss in the process. “Oh, a Mistral Mist Systems 290 AtmoGen.”

 “In English,  _s'il te plaît_ ,” Weiss replied, more than a little snarkily.

Yang rolled her eyes. “It’s an industrial  _fog machine_ ,” she answered, with a melodramatic sigh of exasperation. “Y’know, for the Christmas party.”

“ _Our_  Christmas party?” Weiss asked, sounding as if a uniformed officer had just informed her that her entire family was killed in a fiery plane crash.

Yang shuffled slightly on the spot. “Well… what else would it be for?”

For a moment, the silence between the two women was complete.

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Weiss suddenly declared, tapping the hotkey that would remove that line from their account books with extreme prejudice. “You can return that overpriced monstrosity on your own time, too. Best of luck getting a refund, Xiao Long.”

Yang scowled, but refused to surrender the battlefield. “Hate to remind you this,  _Schnee_ , because I just  _know_  how you hate condescension…” ( _Oh, yeah, they were burning bridges today._ ) “But  _one_  of us is the designated event planner at the Beacon University Press.” She paused, giving a moment for the blow to sink in. “And it’s not Weiss ‘Buzzkill’ Schnee.”

Weiss’ glare was about as cold as one of those subglacial lakes beneath the Antarctic ice sheet. “And I’d hate to remind  _you_ , modern-day Emily Post that you are, but no less an authority than  _your sister_ made me co-host of this little shindig.”

A genuine  _growl_  escaped Yang. “Probably because she didn’t think you’d spent two weeks debating over which  _doilies_  to go with!” An accusatory finger was  _thrust_  in the direction of Weiss’ desk, pointing to a thick book of doily samples splayed open atop it. Weiss had gotten it shipped straight from a design studio in Milan.

“ _Unbelievable_ ,” Weiss declared, somewhere between a grumble and a curse. She snatched up a cup of cold coffee and moved suddenly to stand up, unthinkingly colliding with the taller, sturdier coworker of hers, who was damn-well not going anywhere.

Weiss rather literally bounced off Yang’s chest.  _Fortunately_ , she fell back into her seat, instead of landing hard on her ass.  _Unfortunately_ , she flailed a bit in the descent, sending the contents of her cup of coffee spilling through the air. Onto her desk. Her keyboard. Her-

-” _sample book! You complete and utter_ barbarian!” Weiss shouted, as sixteen ounces of premium dark roast began seeping through its pages. “That was €180!”

Yang’s body was still, but there was no missing the fire in her gaze. “ _Oops_.”

* * *

The sounds of the shouting match that followed soon filled the office halls, causing winces and cringes and a few panicked looks from all around. Including in the supposedly-soundproofed conference room where the duellists’ coworkers had been  _planning_ to have a meeting.

“ _So_ …” Ruby said, between flinches at the commotion. “Working lunch? My treat.”

Blake let out a defeated sigh. “Sure.”

The two made their escape from the two-story building that housed the Beacon University Press ( _always_  pronounced  _B-U-P_ , with one Yang-shaped exception). The winds of winter nicked at every inch of exposed skin as Ruby and Blake hurried to Student Union Building, the latter cursing the absence of her scarf the whole way to the SUB.

“ _No_ , Ruby, not the gelato place,” Blake pleaded with a groan, as they came to a stop in front of the city’s only all-weather frozen desserts diner.

Ruby scoffed. “Gelato is always awesome, and  _I’m_  the one expensing this,” she corrected, fishing for her wallet. “Also,” she added, a little quieter, “it’s like the one place I  _know_  Yang won’t walk in on us.”

Blake raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?” she asked, as they made their way into the white-tiled gelateria. The walls were covered perplexingly with pictures of 1920s American gangsters, the decor evoking a ‘50s diner aesthetic. Blake surveyed the delicacies on display, mind wandering.

And then she blinked, realizing that the neapolitan ice cream cake she’d been eyeing was, in fact, the fetching doo of the woman behind the counter. The hairs on the back of Blake’s neck rose as said woman smiled sinisterly.

“… _That’s_  why,” Ruby said, once the two of them had ordered, taking a seat in the remotest of the booths. “She won’t tell me why, but Yang  _hates_  that girl,” Ruby continued, explaining between spoonfuls of sorbet. “Also, you know, the owner of this place is like some Russian mafia guy. Allegedly.”

Blake sighed defeatedly into her tartufo. She was doing that increasingly in these Days of Christmas. “So?”

“ _Somf_?” Ruby repeated, her lips wrapped around a spoon.

“So why did you make Yang and Weiss co-planners of the Christmas party?”

Ruby shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. “Well… I figured… I guess… forcing them to work together… would make them learn to respect each other?” She sunk lower in the booth.

Blake shook her head. “Pretty sure that only happens on kids TV shows, Ruby,” she chided, gently.

“I know,” Ruby admitted, a little mournfully.

“And while I don’t mean to insult Weiss, she isn’t really a  _party girl_ ,” Blake continued, her dessert untouched. “And you’re throwing her into the deep end, here.”

The end-of-year Christmas party was usually a fairly low-key affair, just some streamers and music and beer from the campus store.  _This December_ , though, BUP was celebrating an agreement with the Atlas Publishing Company, which meant their little soirée had turned into a  _de facto_  industry event.

Not that any of them were happy about it. The APC was rather rigidly conservative in what it saw as fit to print, in contrast to Beacon’s more holistic philosophy. Blake’s job of searching for Japanese pop culture products fit for translation and republication couldn’t exist at Atlas, nor would a woman as young as Ruby Rose have ever been invested with such a position of power. But business was business, and they’d resigned themselves to their new reality.

“I know this is Weiss’ first big party, and she’s probably super-nervous about being involved with it,” Ruby began, doing her best not to squirm. “But… um… you know how Weiss’ dad has like a  _ton_ of investments everywhere?”

Blake’s brow furrowed, as it always did at the mention of Herr Schnee. “ _I’m aware_ ,” she said with a glower.

“ _Wellllll_ , turns out some of them are with the APC, and I guess he decided to swing by for this.” Ruby swallowed. “So I thought… I guess… Weiss might want a say in how we do things? For that?”

Blake let out a long and loud breath. “Well. What’s a Christmas party without a Grinch. A Scrooge. A  _man who’s been accused of exploitation across half the developing world._ ”

Ruby shrunk even lower, her eyes threatening to dip below the booth’s table. “Think you’re overstretching the analogy, Blake,” she noted, before forcing herself to sit upright like an adult.

Blake rubbed the bridge of her nose, feeling the harbinger of a migraine. “ _Okay_. I see where you’re coming from,” Blake admitted. She really did. Nobody but Ruby Rose would’ve seen this looming calamity as an opportunity for team-building.

“They’ve still got, like,  _a week_  to figure it out,” Ruby observed, fishing out another spoonful.

“And if they  _don’t_ ,” Blake remarked, “you can always just pull the fire alarm when they’re in an elevator together.  _That_  always triggers a heart-to-heart in the movies.”

Blake glanced up from her dessert, paling as she saw the way Ruby’s eyes were widening in excitement. “Ruby  _no-_ ”

* * *

“This is going to be a disaster,” Weiss remarked for the umpteenth time, staring blankly at the small atrium they were expected to transform into a lively party in less than twenty-four hours.

Yang let slip a dismissive  _grunt_ , setting down a dolly stacked with beer cases that she’d wheeled over from the loading bay. “We’ll be fine, princess,” Yang replied, wiping her brow as she spoke.

Weiss rolled her eyes. “Seeing as you’re rolling in the last of our alcohol budget,  _no_ , Xiao Long, we  _won’t_  be.”

“What’s wrong with beer?” Yang asked, just a touch defensively, fingers curling around a case’s cut-in handles.

“For starters, you were supposed to get something  _appropriately classy_  for an informal industry meeting. Something like, oh,  _I don’t know_ , champagne!” Yang set her case down on the nearest of the folding tables, the carton landing with a dull  _thud_. “Maybe I’d actually like to  _remember_  what happens tomorrow evening!”

“Relax, Ice Queen, nobody’ll let you get shit-faced,” Yang grumbled, cutting open the cardboard with her housekey. “Dad gave me a  _pretty_ clear talking-to about drinking in moderation before frosh.”

“Oh  _really_?” Weiss replied, in mock disbelief.

“ _Yeah_ , actually,” Yang shot back, plucking an aluminium can from the carton. Then she paused, forcing herself to take a few calming,  _steadying_  breaths. “You’d like him. Made sure I’d never drink so much I blacked out.” Yang snapped a can open, foam fizzing out. “‘ _Memory is the key_ ’, as he’d say.” She took a noisy sip.

Weiss deflated a bit. “I’m sorry. That was a little uncalled for,” she admitted, staring at her boots.

“A bit, yeah,” Yang agreed, hopping up onto the table.

“Your father sounds like a wonderful person…” Weiss continued, before trailing off entirely.

“Kinda different for you, eh?”

Weiss nodded, a little meekly. “You know that my father and I are not… on the best of terms…”

“Through the grapevine,” Yang allowed, her feet kicking slightly as she spoke.

“It’s just this party. He’s coming. I’m sure we’ll run into each other.”

“And you think,” Yang wondered aloud, “that if it’s a  _really_ nice part - like super-classy and everything - that maybe he’ll like you a bit more?”

Weiss said nothing, but that silence spoke for her.

“Will he?” Yang asked.

Weiss shook her head, by the barest of degrees. “ _No_ ,” she whispered. “It’s never enough. Nothing  _I_  ever want to do  _myself_  will ever be good enough.”

Yang let out a sigh as the breakthrough was realized. “That sucks. I really am sorry, Weiss,” she said, as earnestly as was possible.

“Thank you.”

“ _But_ ,” the tone of Yang’s voice changed, from conciliatory to convivial, “you have to know that I’m not exactly thrilled at the thought of hosting the dude, either.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Weiss replied. Yang sat next to Blake, after all.

Yang’s gaze drifted back to the fog machine, which lay unplugged in a corner. “So why are we bending over backwards to make him at home? Why not have a bit of fun?”

Weiss’ eyes drifted up from her toes, finding the mischievous gleam in her coworker’s eyes.  _Damn_  if that grin wasn’t contagious.

“ _Purely_  out of curiosity,” Weiss began, treading carefully with her words, “do you remember that mariachi band you had play at the fiscal-year-end party?”

Yang blinked. “The one with the guy you threatened to get a restraining order for?”

“That one.”

Yang swallowed. “Um… Juan Arc y los Enebros?” She saw the unflinching determination in Weiss’ eyes. “Are you  _sure_  you want to go nuclear?”

“ _Yes_. Because if there’s one thing my father can’t stand,” Weiss began, her tone ice, “it’s terrible Tejano music.” Yang swallowed, and when Weiss continued, there was no missing the malevolent glee in her words: 

“This  _is_  going to be a disaster.”

* * *

“…and while a mariachi band isn’t  _traditionally_  considered part of the Christmas experience,” Blake was saying, sweat trickling from her brow, “we thought it in the spirit of Beacon to explore non-conventional, multi-cultural ways of enjoying the holiday, regardless of cultural context.”

That was some of the purest B.S. Blake had ever pedalled, she knew, and she’d spent eight years in post-secondary academia.

“I… see…” lied Glynda Goodwitch, Vice President (Communications), surveying the celebrations through her spectacles. And then she took a quick side-step, narrowly avoiding a collision with two of the more-thoroughly-sloshed revelers.

Off on the other side of the atrium, Juan Arc y los Enebros - who Goodwitch was  _pretty_  certain were not an authentic mariachi troupe - were making their way through a setlist of Tejano remixes of Christmastime classics. Because nothing evoked holiday cheer like “White Christmas” with guitarrón accompaniment.

Deeper into the atrium - atop a dance floor packed with a heterogenous mix of students, BUP employees, and publishing industry reps - Yang Xiao Long was bouncing her way between throngs of revelers, bare legs masked by a cloud of vaporous fog, a half-empty bottle clutched in her hand.

A hand caught her shoulder, forcing her to spin ‘round.

“ _Weiss_ ,” Yang declared, hollering slightly to be heard over the cacophony. “How’s it going? You see your dad?” She couldn’t help but note that Weiss was even holding a beer bottle, barely-touched though it seemed.

“Oh, I found him,” Weiss confirmed, with that cheshire grin of danger. “Come see who I introduced him to.”

Weiss grabbed Yang’s hand in her own before the latter could think to protest, dragging her towards the edge of the mass of partiers. There, wedged between Juan Arc and the fog machine…

“You didn’t…” Yang murmured.

“… _Despite smelling of cabbages, my grandfather was a wise man. ‘Peter!’, he told me_ …”

“Oh, I did. Handled the introductions myself, in fact.”

The mariachi band, the free-standing fog machine, Professor Port, and a wall of solid brick had formed the perfect prison for  _père_ Schnee, one as intolerable as any Alcatraz. 

From over the portly professor’s shoulder, Jacques Schnee caught his daughter’s eye. There was no mistaking the venom in that glower.

 Weiss  _clinked_ the neck of her glass bottle against Yang’s. “For a barbarian, you throw a pretty good party.”

Yang grinned at the backhanded compliment. “Whatever gets you through your daddy issues, Ice Queen.”

Weiss’ smile didn’t much waver. “You know what would  _really_  piss him off?” she mused aloud. “And I am  _just_  drunk enough to consider?”

Yang glanced at Weiss’ beer bottle. The party was too young for it to be anything but her first, and it seemed as untouched as ever. “What?”

The finger’s of Weiss free handle laced themselves through Yang’s…

**Author's Note:**

> In keeping with Rooster Teeth tradition, all Spanish translations done via Google Translate. Any and all feedback, concerns, criticisms, and comments are appreciated. Feel free to hit me up on [reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/) or [Tumblr](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/).


End file.
